


Changes in Time

by az (brosexual)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Altaïr Is a Cutie, Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Slash, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brosexual/pseuds/az
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they met, Altaïr was arrogant and Malik was just looking forward to getting the Piece of Eden and getting out. Somehow, the next time they met, everything had changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes in Time

The first time they met (outside of Masayaf, that is; down in Solomon’s Temple), Altaïr was arrogant and Malik was content with getting the hell out of there as soon as they had the Piece of Eden. 

There’s just something about being six feet under that really gets to you sometimes.

“An excellent kill! Fortune favors your blade.” Kadar and Malik slid out from the tunnel behind him to gather around the elderly body, the former grinning at him from beneath his hood.

“Not fortune; _skill_.” Altaïr sent back a smirk of his own. “Watch awhile longer and you might learn something.”

“Indeed,” Malik cut in with a disapproving glower. “He’ll teach you how to disregard everything the master’s taught us.”

There was a quiet snort from the younger assassin. “And how would you have done it?”

“I would not have drawn attention to us.” Gesturing vaguely with his hands, “I would not have taken the life of an innocent. What I would have done,” And here, Altaïr rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “Is followed the Creed.”

At this though, he glanced sharply back over to Malik, frowning. He dared question his adherence to the Creed? “Nothing is true; everything is permitted. Understand these words. It matters not how we complete our task. Only that’s it’s done.”

“But this is not the way of-"

“My way is better.”

Clenching his jaw and looking between Altaïr and his brother, Malik let it drop. Even so, his voice was tight when he offered himself to scout ahead. Then, hesitating for just a moment before he set off, he fixed the master assassin with a dirty look, a sneer curling his lip. “Try not to dishonor us further.”

Before Altaïr had a chance to shoot back an insult at his retreating form, Kadar stepped in front of him.

“What is our mission? My brother would say nothing to me, only that I should be honored to have been invited.”

Giving up on peering past the younger’s shoulder (where he may or may not have been watching Malik leap across the wooden beams frequenting the holes in the ground, and where he may or may not have been silently wishing he would trip and fall onto his face), Altaïr turned his attention to the boy.

“The Master believes the Templars have found something beneath the temple mount.”

A curious excitement gleamed in Kadar’s widened eyes, the grin plastered across his face growing. “Treasure?”

“I do not know. All that matters is the Master considers it important, else he would not have asked me to retrieve it.” Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Kadar nodded and stepped back. “Now let us join your brother before he gets himself neck-deep in trouble.”

Had Malik been around to hear, he would have raised a disbelieving eyebrow and snipped back with a, ‘ _I_ would be the one getting into trouble?’

Altaïr paused at the thought, a tad disconcerted that he knew exactly how the other male would react; only upon the prompting, almost questioning glance from Kadar did he snap back to attention, heading in the direction Malik had disappeared. 

The three regrouped farther ahead after clearing a generous amount of the wooden beams (one of which Altaïr actually slipped on, and was sent down to the bottom of the hole with a curse, forced to heave himself back out with his bruised pride. He _knew_ Malik had seen, and so help him if the older assassin said anything about it, Altaïr’s blade _would_ end up in his throat) and taking down a stray Templar.

Standing at a ledge overlooking a relief, with Kadar keeping watch from the passage they entered from, Malik absently reached over to place a hand on the younger’s shoulder, grabbing his attention.

“Look! It must be the Ark.” At the perturbed look Altaïr threw him, Malik stared back. 

“The Ark?” Kadar had glanced over to them, confusion written clearly across his face. His brother nodded.

“Of the Covenant.” 

Oh. Realizing what he was talking about, Altaïr scoffed. “Don’t be silly, there’s no such thing. It’s just a story.”

“Then what is it?” The frown pulling at his lips prompted agitated lines through his brow, lines that deepened a moment later when his eyes were drawn down and his body shifted into a crouch. “Quiet! Someone’s coming.”

On cue, a group of Templars marched in from the ground level, not yet aware of the three’s position. The leader, who, when Altaïr focused his eyes, was startlingly familiar, barked out an order to the others, one that went unheard by him as he clenched his hands and stepped closer to the ledge.

“Robert de Sable!” The growl had forced its way from his throat before he registered it. “His life is mine.”

Malik, bless his soul, stepped in front of him and glared, voice kept low and dangerous and determined. “No. You were asked to retrieve the treasure and deal with Robert only if necessary.”

“He stands between us and it!” Taking a step closer to the other, teeth bared, breath washing softly across Malik’s face. “I’d say it’s necessary!”

“Discretion, Altaïr!” A hand shot out to wrap tightly around his wrist.

“You mean cowardice. That man is our greatest enemy, and here we have a chance to be rid of him.” He tried pulling his arm free, succeeding only in yanking the other man closer.

“You have already broken two tenants of our Creed, now you would break a third.” Dark eyes sparked with anger, nothing obscured by the shade of the hood. “Do not compromise the Brotherhood!”

With a feral snarl, he ripped his wrist out of Malik’s grip. “I am your superior, in both title and ability. You should know better than to question me.” Ignoring the distraught ‘Altaïr!’ that followed after him, he jumped down the platform to the ground and stalked up to the larger group, sneakiness be damned. “Hold, Templars!”

As Robert looked back to see him, smiling unpleasantly, he proceeded to launch into a small speech, tuned out by the master assassin. Only upon hearing his last question, a more exasperated than anything ‘what do you want?’ did he answer (with a rather smooth, in his opinion), “Blood.”

Subconsciously, as he leapt towards him, he felt Kadar and Malik rush to approach behind him (he also felt the latter’s furious gaze boring into him, but he ignored that part) and there was a strangled ‘ _no!_ ’ from somewhere, sounding suspiciously like the older Al-Sayf sibling. Reaching fingertips swiped across his hand as he swung it forward; a botched attempt to grab him and anchor him in place.

In a flurry of motion that, regardless of all of his training, left him not knowing what was up and what was down, Altaïr struggled when everything stilled and he found his arm caught in a vice grip, hidden blade a safe distance away from his target’s throat.

The Templar had leaned into his face once he deemed Altaïr harmless, spitting, “You know not the things in which you meddle in.” The assassin snarled, trying to break the grip on his forearm, to drive his blade just the few inches left between steel and flesh… “I’ll spare you only that you may return to your master and deliver a message: the Holy Land is lost to him and his people.”

With that, de Sable twisted and used the momentum to toss Altaïr into a rotting support beam.

He crashed through, snapping it like it was a twig rather than holding up an entire structure. Grunting as he scrambled to prop himself on his elbows, he looked through the hole he made.

A cold feeling of dread washed over him when he met Malik’s gaze; warm brown gone icy with fury, with disbelief…with betrayal. His lips parted, but whatever he was about to say got cut off by a foreboding creak as whatever support beams he had managed to not break broke anyway. There was a painfully still moment, what felt like hours where Altaïr felt nothing but the chill of those eyes, where he was unable to break the contact.

It did break though, violently so, when the rest of the structure finally collapsed under its own weight, no longer held up by the beams. There was a terrible groan, the entire ground shaking as more rocks barricaded the entrance, throwing up dust and dirt everywhere. He struggled to his feet regardless, and stood staring at the mess for a moment. He didn’t check for another way in; there were none.

On the other side of the blockade, there was a wild call, an order: kill the assassins.

Feeling sick, he turned away.

For one of the first times in his life, Altaïr ibn La’Ahad fled.

\--

The second time they met, Altaïr was wondering why his chest hurt so bad and Malik was bleeding out.

“Where are Malik and Kadar?” Al Maulim asked with narrowed eyes after a pause.

Altaïr hesitated and made sure that when he spoke, there was no inflection on his words. “Dead,” he finally answered, even though his voice was too quiet, too soft.

“No!” And oh, if that voice didn’t lift the icy grip on his insides!

Silver eyes darted up from beneath the security of the owner’s hood. “Malik,” he breathed, relieved and unsure and very un-Altaïr-like. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, just the slightest, only to be dragged back down as the older assassin continued talking.

“Not dead,” though he definitely sounded the part. Looked it too, actually, considering the bloody mess covering his robes and arm. “I still live at least.” His voice was rough, pained.

Still, their Master urged him to continue. “And your brother?”

“Gone.” Malik’s head snapped up, uninjured arm following suite to point. There was a wild light in his eyes, one that made Altaïr want to back away. “Because of you!”

While a small part of him knew that was true, a much bigger part known as his pride stomped down on it and fueled his need to defend himself. “Robert threw me from the room; there was no way back, nothing I could do.”

The hand shot forward to fist in the younger’s robes, pulling him closer, and then Malik was all but screaming in his face. “Because you would not heed my warning!” Altaïr raised his own hand to wrap his fingers around the other’s wrist, noticed Malik was trembling. “All of this could have been avoided!”

Then his grip slackened, his whole body slumping forward against Altaïr’s, seemingly suddenly devoid of the strength to stand on his own. “My brother…” His arm fell back down to his side, slipping through the younger’s slight hold. “My brother would still be alive. Your arrogance nearly cost us victory today.”

Altaïr unconsciously tightened his grip, feeling it was the most he could do (the misplaced fact that he wanted, to an extent, to wrap his arms around the older man, hold him and let him know he was not alone; it went overlooked by Altaïr).

And of course, _now_ would be the most opportune time for the Master to step in, with a quipped, “Nearly?”

Malik stood still and quiet against Altaïr for a moment longer before stepping back and away, ducking his head. His voice, his entire demeanor, lacked the fire from before as he gestured for a lower ranking assassin to approach, carrying the Piece of Eden.

As it was set down on Al Maulim’s desk, another novice came bounding up, out of breath as he informed the Master of the attack on the village.

“Go then, inform the others. The fortress must be prepared. As for you, Altaïr,” he spared but a quick glance over to young assassin. “Our discussion will have to wait. Head for the village, destroy these invaders. Drive them from our home.”

“It will be done.” And with a flick of a hand, he was dismissed, turning to head out.

When he brushed past Malik though, there was a pause in his step, yet another hesitance. His mouth worked, looking for words not there, and his light gaze sought out the countering dark one.

Malik kept his head turned away though, not so much as twitching when Altaïr’s fingertips grazed the back of his hand as he passed.

He didn’t look up, even as Altaïr looked back.

\--

The third time they met, Altaïr was getting real tired of Jerusalem and Malik was missing an arm.

“Safety and peace, bro-” His voice caught in his throat as he walked through the entranceway of the bureau, a stutter in his steps. It was increasingly subtle, the break in his apathetic demeanor; but Malik had never failed to catch it before. “Brother.”

But… _Malik_.

Instantly, instinctively, Altaïr’s eyes swept over the older, scanning his face –different now, without the concealment of the hood, but still the same- and being drawn towards what had been a bloody mess of an arm the last time he saw him. Except now, there was no arm, just an empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder.

Dragging his eyes back to his face (a safe move, because the hood he still wore allowed him inconspicuous sight), Malik had an eyebrow raised –Altaïr was starting to believe it was just his default expression whenever he was concerned.

“Your presence here deprives me of both.” Ouch. “What do you want?”

“Al Maulim has asked-”

“Asked that you perform some menial task in an effort to redeem yourself,” he interjected with a wave of his hand, turning away to the shelves behind him. “So be out with it.”  
It stung his pride to be interrupted, stung ever worse when he realized Malik knew it was exactly what he was going to say.

“Very well.” His voice was tight, strained. “Here’s what I know.” Launched himself into a detailed account of the information he so painstakingly gathered. “And as we speak, he prepares a caravan for travel. I’ll strike while he’s expecting a stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge.”

Malik ceased his pacing. “Little challenge? Listen to you.” He turned smoldering eyes on him, narrowed into dangerous slits. “Such arrogance.” Altaïr tried to ignore him, but grit his teeth nonetheless. It probably wouldn’t look very good to the Master if he accidentally stabbed his contractor in the throat.

“Are we finished? Are you satisfied with what I’ve learned?”

The bureau was quiet as Malik stared him down, brow knitting even further before shaking his head. All of it made Altaïr want to slink back out, suffer just the city and not his once-almost-notquite-friend. That, or just jump the counter and beat some sense into him until he had an _ounce_ of the remote respect he once had. Anything would be better than how he was acting now; treating the younger assassin as if he were a…a child.

“No.” Finally, he turned back to the shelves and Altaïr thought he wouldn’t say anything else. But then he sighed, reached up for a box, and turned back to him. “But it will have to do.”  
He retrieved a feather from the box, passing it over the counter to Altaïr’s waiting hand. Knuckles brushed together for a fleeting moment before Malik had ripped his arm back like he had been burned. A sneer curled his lip, but he wasn’t looking at the man in front of him.

“Rest, prepare, cry in the corner. Do whatever it is you do before a mission. Only make sure you do it quietly.” Then he had turned his back to him yet again, decidedly ignoring Altaïr.

Well, at least Malik wasn’t kicking him out onto his ass. For the most part.

Part of Altaïr was tempted to take him up on one of his suggestions, if just to spend a bit more time in his company.

The thought made him get the hell out of there all the quicker.

\--

The next time, Altaïr was weary from barely escaping the guards and Malik was a slightly smaller ass to him.

“Altaïr! Wonderful to see you return to us! And, how fared the mission?” For just a moment, he almost let himself believe Malik might actually be happy to see him, almost let himself believe that Solomon’s Temple never happened.

But he could see past the sickly sweet smile, and Malik’s lack of an arm was a constant, blaring reminder that it actually, in fact, _did_ happen.

He tossed the bloodied feather across the counter, almost wishing it would ruin the wood, stain it red where it touched.

“The deed is done. Talal is dead.”

He took the new one from Malik’s hand, skin once again brushing together. The touch lingered; this time, the older just frowned and withdrew his hand after a minute.

“Oh, I know, I know…in fact, the entire city knows. Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?”

“A skilled assassin ensures his work is noticed by the many.”

“No! A skilled assassin takes control of his environment.”

Those dark brown eyes found the corresponding silver and spat fire. Up against the edge of the desk, Altaïr thought he could make out gold flecks in them.

“We can argue the details all you like, Malik, but the fact remains I’ve accomplished a task set to me by Al Mualim.”

“Go then. Return to the old man. Let us see with whom he sides.” His voice quieted and when he turned away, he had taken on a more defeated disposition.

The younger male drew in a long breath and sighed, speaking gently. “You and I are on the same side, Malik.”

One remained motionless while the other turned to leave. He had just pulled himself up to the ledge, about to spring the rest of the way out into the city when a quiet, “Altaïr,” stopped him. He glanced back, finding Malik watching him. He lowered himself back down to the ground. “It is dark; you are tired.” The older flicked a hand towards the pile of textiles. “You may rest, if you wish.”

Altaïr didn’t respond, just shed his over-robe and sank down onto the proffered pile before Malik had a chance to change his mind (of course, he didn’t change his mind; just hummed in thought and pulled a book out from under his counter).

“Malik,” Altaïr muttered after a time, staring at the wall across from him. There was no reply, but he could feel that sharp gaze on him.

A ‘thank you’ was tangled in his throat, trying to make sense of itself in his mouth, but it didn’t quite make it.

\--

They met for a fifth time; Altaïr was starting to wonder if maybe he actually did have feelings and Malik was...well, Malik was still missing an arm.

“What news, novice?” Malik glanced up from whatever he was doing to that map, a small grin set upon his face. It stunned the younger for a second; it was the friendliest he had seen the man act towards him lately (that was, of course, including the fact that Altaïr had been off in other cities for a while, and maybe that meant Malik had missed him, maybe just a little?).

Taking his small surprise in stride, he grumbled back, “M’not a novice.”

The older man glanced up from his map as Altaïr approached the counter, brow raised. “A man’s skill is defined by his actions, not the markings on his robe.”

Altaïr sighed, crossing his arms across his chest. “We can trade barbs or do Al Mualim’s work. It’s your decision.” Half of him wondered what he would do if Malik actually chose the former.

But instead of doing that, he just stared at the assassin, grinning and still somehow managing to look unimpressed. “Then be out with it.”

Altaïr explained what was to be done, tucking the feather away into his robes. By the time he was nearly done, there was a thought that maybe this visit would end without incident.

Then his ego slipped, oops, and he mentioned that he knew exactly what he was doing.

Instead of Malik getting angry though, his smile just grew, looking by all means as if he had just made a point. He leaned forwards, arm tucked between his chest and the wooden surface. “And that is why you remain a novice in my eyes. You cannot _know_ anything. All this expect, you must _expect_ to be wrong. How many times must I remind you of this?”

“Are we done?” Disgruntled, Altaïr looked towards the entryway; if just to give his eyes something to do other than look at a startlingly close pair of brown ones.

“Not quite.” But instead of continuing to lecture him, Malik just told him of their brother involved in the execution, that he must be saved. 

Again this time, as he was pulling himself back out into the city, he heard the familiar voice call up to him, “Don’t foul this, Altaïr. Time is of the essence.”

For the first time, Altaïr was glad for the feather secured in his robes: a reason to return to the bureau as soon as possible.

\--

The execution was actually a tiny bit exciting, and the guards difficult to escape from, both of which probably meant he did something wrong. So by the time he made it back to the bureau, Altaïr was his equivalent of an anxious, out of breath mess (which basically just equated to him falling through the bureau’s ceiling entrance instead of landing on his feet). Malik was just waiting, perched up on the counter rather than behind it.

“Jerusalem needs a new ruler,” is all the younger said, holding up his blood-streaked feather.

“So I have heard,” was his simple reply. Altaïr stood still in front of him, expectant. Nothing happened.

He sucked in a breath. “What’s this? No words of wisdom for me? Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion.”

Malik just huffed a laugh at his expense. “You have performed as an assassin should. No more, no less.” He paused to drum his fingers against the surface beneath him. “That you would expect praise for merely doing as told, however, troubles me.” His tone was reprimanding, but there was a teasing light in his eyes, in his smile.

The words had a different effect on the younger male though, who stiffened and stared at the wall beyond Malik’s shoulder. “It seems everything I do troubles you.”

“Reflect on that,” he answered, “On your way back to Masayaf.”

Altaïr didn’t wait for the offer this time, just turned and shook out of his over-robe, flopped down onto the pile of pillows. He did not say a word when Malik joined him later, once the sun had disappeared and all that could be seen from inside the bureau’s walls were stars.

It was a nice quiet, a companionable silence, until the young assassin muttered to the sky, “I was not expecting praise, so much as insult.”

Malik snorted and propped himself up against the wall, glancing down at the other body. “Insult? I do not insult without reason, Altaïr.”

“Perhaps not.” And then it was quiet again, until he too sat up, leaning against the wall next to the man, shoulders brushing. “Tell me a story.” The words were hushed and out of his mouth before he had even thought them, much less before he had tried to stop them.

“Are you not too old for bedtime stories?” There was a hint of a grin in Malik’s voice, one to which Altaïr responded to with a kick to the leg outstretched next to his.

“Think of it not as a bedtime story, then. Tell me a story about your life.”

“So you can find reason to insult _me_? I do not think so.”

Without thinking (and it seemed Altaïr was doing a lot of things without thinking, these days), he reached down and pinched the older man’s wrist. “You forget _I_ do not need reason to insult someone.”

Malik ignored him. When the assassin figured out as much, he repeated his request for a story.

“Can you not think up one on your own?”

Altaïr jabbed the top of his hand with his fingernail, to which the dark haired man replied in kind, along with a teasing, “I am curious as to what you shall do if I continue to refuse your request.”

The younger snorted, his words dripping with sarcasm, “Would you like to find out?” Without waiting for an answer, his hand shot down to wrap around Malik’s, pulling both back up and waving them in front of his face.

“Fine, fine,” he appeasing, chuckling. “A story…when I was young, Templars came and burned down m-”

“I have heard that tale,” Altaïr interjected. “I didn’t like it.” He let their hands fall back to the ground, nestled between them. Neither commented on the way their fingers stayed laced together.

Quiet descended upon them once again as Malik thought, until a distant yowling broke it. “I found a cat, once.” The shoulders resting against his trembled with a silent laugh. “I had not named him, and he did not stick around for long. He _had_ made sure to take one of my feathers along with him when he did go, though.”

…So he wasn’t the best storyteller. But he kept on anyway, sharing not-quite-the-best-but-still-nice tidbits from his life, Altaïr listening on with half-closed eyes, relishing in the way the night air made him feel so open, so safe.

Malik paused in the middle of a recollection, something about having to drag a horse through a river when a weight fell to his shoulder. Starting, he glanced down, met with a dark brown head of messy hair. His eyebrows rose, followed by the corners of his mouth. His eye drifted shut on their own accord, his head tilting down to rest against the top of Altaïr’s, breathing slowing to match the only other one in the area.

When Altaïr woke early the next morning, head and arms sprawled against Malik’s lap, foreign fingers threaded loosely through his hair, he panicked and squirmed away from the man as quick as he could.

Then he fled, because he was scared of what Malik would say when he woke up with the assassin pressed against him, and because he was scared that he had maybe _liked_ being able to be pressed against Malik like that.

(he never stopped to think that maybe Malik was already awake)

\--

The seventh time they met, Altaïr was hosting an ulterior motive and Malik was quite possibly doing the same.

“Safety and peace, Altaïr.” It was probably one of the best things he had ever heard upon walking into a room, and he struggled to keep down the small smile pulling at his lips. 

“Upon you as well, brother.”

“It seems fate has a funny way with things.” Taking a step closer to the counter, the hooded assassin wasted no time in sharing the news he had gathered pertaining to Robert de Sable and his whereabouts in the city.

“Do not let vengeance cloud your thoughts, brother. We both know no good can come from this.” Malik spoke softly, reaching across the wooden barrier to place his hand to the other’s shoulder.

“I have not forgotten,” was his quiet response. “You have nothing to fear. I do not seek revenge but knowledge.”

Something soft played in the dark depths of Malik’s eyes. “Truly you are not the man I once knew.”

Ducking out from under his palm, Altaïr began a slow pace, from one end to the counter to the other. “My work has taught me many things,” he paused at the end of the counter. “Revealed secrets to me.”

He shook his head, began rattling off his plan to attend Majd Addin’s funeral and confront Robert, find out what was going on and end it.

“The sooner, the better.” Malik agreed, retrieving a new feather for him. He didn’t let go once he passed it though, his hand hovering over the younger man’s for a long while. “Fortune favor your blade, brother,” he finally murmured, releasing the hand in his.

Altaïr continued to stare down at his hand, though. “Malik,” he said and those were the edges of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Before I go, there’s something I should say.” With slow, deliberate steps, he rounded the corner of the wooden counter.

“Be out with it, then.”

“I’ve been a fool.”

Malik grinned for a moment, though it faded fast. “Normally, I’d make no argument, but what is this? What are you talking about?”

“All this time…” He took another step towards the older. His eyes were fixed determinedly on the other pair, the silver bright beneath his hood. “I never told you I was sorry.” He paused, and his voice was lower, angry with himself. “Too damn proud.” Another step. “You lost your arm because of me. You lost Kadar.” As close as he was, he could see the momentary flash of pain through Malik’s eyes. His voice lowered even further and he was suddenly chest to chest with the other assassin. “You had every right to be angry.”

Malik was quiet for a long moment, pupils darting back and forth across Altaïr’s face as if searching for something. Then, voice just as soft as the other’s, “I do not accept your apology.”

Altaïr blinked. Blinked again. His scarred lips parted, tongue working behind teeth to try and form some sort of coherent response. Finally, “I understand.” He averted his eyes, looking anywhere but the shorter male in front of him. He began to step away.

“No.” That had those quicksilver eyes darting back up to him, wide and scared. “You don’t.” When Malik saw that he was about to ask something along the lines of ‘what are you talking about’, he elaborated. “I do not accept your apology because you are not the same man who went with me into Solomon’s Temple. And so you have nothing to apologize for.”

His mouth snapped shut, then fell back open, once again trying for words that just weren’t there. “Malik,” he finally breathed and he just sounded so _relieved_. 

The older shook his head though, holding up his hand for silence. “Perhaps if I had not been so envious of you, I…would not have been so careless myself. I’m just as much to blame.”

It was, admittedly, a little entertaining to see Altaïr’s brow knit together, eyes flashing with disbelief, with distress and despair and trepidation. “Don’t say such things.” He settled a hand in the juncture between neck and shoulder.

“We are one,” he continued as if Altaïr hadn’t even spoken up. “As we share the glory of our victories, so too should we share the pain of our defeat. In this way, we grow closer. We grow _stronger_.”

Once Altaïr finally came to the conclusion that not only had Malik not pulled away, but had nudged closer against him, he reached up to take his face in both hands, and leaned down to press his parted mouth against Malik’s.

It was gentle and rough at the same time, needy, desperate; Altaïr’s tongue flitting past Malik’s teeth for a second, just before Malik nipped at Altaïr’s bottom lip, and then Malik’s back hit the wall, pulling a stuttered groan from his throat and a whimper from the other.

It’s over as quick as it started, too quick, the pesky necessity for air making itself known, though neither were willing to go very far for it: foreheads together, upper lips brushing, breathing the other’s air.

The older reached up to take one of Altaïr’s hands away from his face; tilted his head forward, placed his lips upon his jawline and just breathed in. It took a minute, but he forced his mouth up to the younger assassin’s ear, hissed, ‘ _not now_ ’.

He understood, even if he was not necessarily happy with it. He placed one last lingering open-mouthed kiss upon Malik and tore himself away, a new light in his eyes when he pulled his hood back over his head.

“Thank you, brother.”

Malik said nothing for a few minutes. Then he did, a soft, “Rest if you need to, Altaïr. So that you might be ready for what lies ahead.”

Nothing else was said after that, and nothing else was needed to.

Altaïr rested, peacefully for the first time he could remember.

\--

He had lost count of how many times he had met with Malik, to be honest. But this time, Altaïr was struggling to stand and Malik was ready to support him.

“It was a trap,” he grumbled as he crashed through the bureau’s entrance. Malik was on him in an instant, hoisting him up as best he could, half-carrying-half-dragging Altaïr into the more secluded section, leaving a trail of blood behind them.

“The entire city went to chaos; what happened?” The young assassin winced as he was set on the tiled ground, reaching to pull of his over-robe as Malik darted around behind the counter, collecting bandages and rags and a near empty container of salve. After filling a bucket with water from the outer fountain, he crouched in front of Altaïr to help undo the ties and clasps on his robes.

“Robert de Sable was never here.” He coughed before continuing. “He sent another in his stead. He was expec-ah.” Altaïr winced again as Malik pried the bloody cloth of the robes away from his equally bloody shoulder.

The older male glanced up at him as he dipped a rag into the water, pressing it against the two stab wounds. “You must go to Al Maulim.”

Altaïr shook his head, jaw clenched from the sting. “No time. I know where he’s gone, what he plans. If I return to Masayaf, he might succeed.” They continued their hurried conversation and Malik continued cleaning and dressing the wounds.

He had just barely finished bandaging it before Altaïr was pulling his blood-caked robes back on, tugging his hood into place against his shoulders, not yet covering his head. “Do as you must, my friend, but it’s time that I ride for Arsuf. Every moment I delay, our enemy gets one step ahead.” 

Malik watched as he finished strapping on his knives, trying to hide the way his eyes flashed with pain every time he moved the arm that had just been mended. “Be careful, brother,” is all he said, standing at the entrance.

“I will be,” Altaïr murmured as he passed, hesitating for only a moment before turning on his heel, using his body to press the older back against the wall, lips moving against lips. When he pulled away, breathless and flushed and wanting ( _needing_ ) more, he tugged his hood up over his eyes. “I promise.”

Altaïr left, but he wanted nothing more than to stay.

\--

When they came upon each other again before he made it to Al Mualim, Altaïr was the most relieved he’d ever been –and that was probably connected to the fact that Malik was busy saving his ass.

“Altaïr! Up here!”

The man let out a shaky breath, taking one last look around at the dead group of corrupt assassins that had, a moment ago, been outnumbering and overpowering him. The majority of them now had knives through their heads.

Hurrying up the slope towards where Malik and his small circle of men waited, he spoke up, eyes shining with gratitude under the protection of his hood. “You’ve picked a fine time to arrive.”

“So it seems.”

“Guard yourself well, friend. Al Mualim has betrayed us.”

Malik nodded and glanced away for a moment, up towards the fortress. “Yes. Betrayed us and his accomplices as well.”

This rose one of Altaïr’s eyebrows, and he rocked back on the soles of his boots. “How do you know?”

The elder looked away again, almost guiltily. “After we spoke, I returned to the ruins beneath Solomon’s Temple.” Raising his hand, he waved it around in a vague gesture. “Robert had kept a journal, filled its pages with revelations.” 

He paused again and Altaïr uttered soft encouragements to him after a minute. When he finally continued, he looked up and caught the assassin’s gaze. “What I read there broke my heart; but it also opened my eyes. You were right, Altaïr. All along, our Master has used us! We were not to save the Holy Land, but to deliver it to him.” Reaching up, he grasped Altaïr’s shoulder and spoke with finality. “He must be stopped.” 

“Be careful, Malik. What he’s done to the others, he’ll do to us if given the chance. You must stay far from him.”

Malik seemed almost appalled, as if the suggestion was preposterous. Why though, Altaïr couldn’t tell.

“What would you propose?” At Altaïr’s continued silence and with a flash of defiance, he kept on. “My men remain my own and I may be missing my arm, but I am not incapable. It would be a mistake not to use us, Altaïr.”

The younger’s brow furrowed as he watched him, pupils darting across his face before falling to the side. “Distract these thralls, then. Assault the fortress from behind. If you can draw their attention from me, I can reach Al Maulim.”

“I will do as you ask.” A strange look flitted through Altaïr’s expression, but it disappeared in an instant.

“The men we face, their minds are not their own. If you can, avoid killing them.”

Malik nodded, hand tightening around the other’s shoulder. “Yes.” He turned to his group of men, giving them their orders and dispelling them with a jerk of his head before returning his attention to the younger man. “Though he has betrayed the tenants of the Creed, it does not mean we must as well. I’ll do what I can.”

“That is all I ask.” A small smile played at the edges of his mouth. “Safety and peace, my friend.”

“Your presence here will deliver us both.” Malik bowed his head, to which Altaïr responded by sucking in a sharp breath.

“Don’t-”

“Altaïr.” He looked up, caught the younger’s shaded gaze and held it. There was a struggle of some sort in the silver irises, one that reflected in Malik’s dark pair. In the end though, he rubbed his thumb along Altaïr’s neck, dropped his arm, and just whispered, “ _Hurry_.”

The younger male stood stock-still, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to just sink to the ground and take Malik with him and stay there. But then he nodded, slow at first and picking up speed.

“Be careful,” he repeated and backed away, up towards the fortress. Even after he turned, he couldn’t stop from looking back over his shoulder to where the dark-haired man remained, looking small and out of place.

Probably for what was the second time, Altaïr did the exact opposite of what he wanted as he walked away from Malik.

\--

It was soon after Altaïr defeated Al Maulim when Malik and a few of his men caught up with him in the courtyard. Altaïr just closed his eyes and let out a breath of relief that the older was unharmed ( _which is stupid, Malik isn’t defenseless_ , he has to remind himself, _he used to be an assassin too_ ).

They stood side by side for a moment, staring with wide eyes at the map projected by the Apple, until Malik pulled him away and told one of the other men to take it inside.

Together, they weaved through the corridors of the fortress, unhurried and silent until they passed through a secluded area near the outer walls. A wall fountain bubbled water somewhere nearby, though neither cared much to check where.

When they slowed to a near stop, Altaïr didn’t have to look up to know that dark gaze was trained on him.

“This is-” And then whatever Malik had been about to say was cut off with a hitch in his breath, interrupted by lips upon his, the abruptness of it sending them both stumbling back against the stone wall. Altaïr’s arms formed a protective cage around him, just as Malik’s had reached up to throw the younger’s hood back.

“Before, you said you would do as I ask,” he panted between them, lips brushing lightly against the other pair.

“Pertaining to the then and there.” Malik sounded equal parts breathless and amused. 

Altaïr kept on as if he hadn’t heard, dipping forward to press a brief open-mouthed kiss to the man. “Right now, I have something to ask; Malik, Malik _please_ can we-”  


He was interrupted by a hand sliding under his robes (when had Malik even undone the ties?), teeth nipping at his lip and brushing down to his jaw. “You needn’t ask for that,” the older murmured against his skin, tongue lapping against the irritated flesh. Altaïr whimpered.

Then they were clawing at each other, desperate and unwilling to let their mouths stray far apart. When the darker robe was pushed off his shoulders, Malik slid down the wall with it, bringing the other man down with him.

The lower, trailing ends of his white robes were shoved up and away, Altaïr’s breastplate being pushed off to the side. For a moment, the younger assassin allowed his hand to rest at the hem of Malik’s pants, feeling an answering hardness between the sprawled legs that matched his own.

As he lingered, Malik pushed the larger man’s robes open, revealing a scarred chest and a bandaged shoulder, and a wide array of fresh little nicks and cuts and bruises. The folds of the garment fell and draped over the both of them, hovering over him as Altaïr was.

When Altaïr kissed him again, he ran his tongue along the scar crossing his lips, pulling him closer when he shuddered, and then both pairs of pants were being eased down to bunch at the top of their boots.

The younger brushed his mouth down to Malik’s exposed neck, nudging his chin up with his nose and latching onto his pulse. A low noise rumbled in his throat as he took both of them in his hand, hot and heavy. Malik let out a breathy sigh, head tilting back against the wall and his own hand trailing down to splay against Altaïr’s stomach.

“I… Altaïr,” came the hushed groan, silenced when the assassin leaned back up (after assuring what would be a very prominent mark on the front of Malik’s throat) and traced Malik’s lips with his tongue.

“Shh.” A thumb ran along their cocks, smearing precome across the slits and back down the shafts. Malik swallowed the moan that slipped from Altaïr’s mouth, reciprocating it with one of his own as the fingers wrapped around them pumped faster.

The elder’s hand danced further down, shakily joining Altaïr’s, knuckles brushing. Another whimper sounded from the younger man as slim fingers touched the swollen, burning skin and the touches synchronized.

Altaïr’s other hand skimmed up his face, carding through dark hair, forcing Malik’s head further back. He took advantage of it; tongue darting in to explore the hot mouth, trying to map out and commit every crevice, every inch to memory. He felt light-headed, high off the other’s taste.

Mumbling obscenely as the grips around them grew increasingly frantic, Altaïr pushed closer against him, tongues slick and working against each other. He pulled away just a fraction, to pant against Malik’s open mouth and murmur senseless things into his cheek.

Senseless things turned into a string of words, a repeated mantra of ‘ _Malik Malik Malik_ ’, and when his hips stuttered, adding that last bit of friction that he needed to push him over, his stomach clenched, fingers tightening.

Altaïr’s voice cut off with a sharp intake of breath, body subconsciously leaning forward and he released with a harsh cry, nearly biting down too hard against Malik’s lip. 

The noise seemed to do something to the older, dark eyes clenching shut and hand jerking when he spilled as well, making a mess between their stomachs with a low groan of his own. 

They laid still and quiet for moments, wound up tight in the other’s arms, trying to slow their panting breaths.

When Malik leaned forward to press a soft, slow, deliberate kiss to Altaïr’s lips, the younger pressed back, rolling over onto his side so as not to crush the other man. 

“Altaïr, you-”

“Malik.” His eyelids drooped, a lazy smile spread across his face as he sidled closer against Malik’s side, wrapping them in the extra folds of his robe. “Shh.” He wiped his hand on the grassy ground, reaching between them and groping for the dark-haired male’s hand.

Washed over with a wave of déjà vu, Altaïr remembered that not-so-long-ago night they had spent in the bureau; despite the fact that they were no longer in Jerusalem and the sun was only just beginning to set.

So they couldn’t stay there for very long; so they had to check the fortress for casualties. But it could wait.

Even though they were gross, a mess splattering their torsos, and even though Altaïr was pretty sure he had agitated his injuries again, and even though their corrupt master still laid dead and they had an entire organization of assassins to put back into order…with the smiling Malik nestled into his side, Altaïr figured it was alright.

Altaïr was fine. They would be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> ive read a lot of altmal fics and i mean i love a whole bunch of them but i haven't really found any like what i had been expecting so i went ahead and wrote it oops. basically just based on all their interactions throughout ac1…and then some c; essentially my first time writing for these two so it might actually be horrible and im still kinda edgy with the smut and ending soo,,  
> also idk if i understand this formating??


End file.
